Before long, a young man walked in. He cleared his throat, the sound sharp and awkward in the sacred stillness. The air was dry, thick with the scent of old wood and beeswax, and dust motes danced in the slants of late afternoon light that cut through the gloom. The small, wooden room was uncomfortably echoey, amplifying the frantic beat of his own heart. A swirl of heat churned inside him as he dropped to his knees on the worn velvet cushion of the kneeler. He sighed, the sound swallowed by the heavy curtain hanging between him and his confessor a still, purple barrier with no wind to sway its hem. He let out a voice, thin and strained.
"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."
From the other side of the divide, the voice of Fr. Bernard was a low, steady rumble, like stone grinding against stone. "May the Lord grant you a good and perfect confession, and lead you to a life everlasting."
The young man's heart was a trapped bird beating against the cage of his ribs, but he continued. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned… in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and in what I have failed to do…" The practiced rhythm of the prayer was a frail raft on a sea of shame. "Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault. It has been a month since my last confession. Here are my sins…" The words seemed to get stuck in his throat, clotting the air. He could feel Fr. Bernard's patient silence, a palpable presence waiting in the dimness. "I have been dishonest. I have been prideful. I have had lustful thoughts." His voice trembled, a leaf in a storm. "I have… I have committed sins of sexual immorality. I have masturbated."
The words dropped like stones into a deep well, and his heart sank with them. His voice was barely a vibration now. It has started, he thought, might as well finish it. "I committed sins of fornication." The word fornication fell like a hammer, and he felt his blood spike, a hot flush creeping up his neck. "I have let lust control my heart."
A long pause bloomed in the confessional, thick and heavy. The distant echo of the choir practicing in the loft seemed to reach them from another world. The young man sat stunned, unsure if he had done something wrong, or even if anyone was still there. Finally, a frail, weary voice spoke up from the other side of the curtain.
"Your life," it began, each word measured and slow, "is precious to God. And He would do anything to save your soul… even cripple you. Make you ill. As long as those things would bring you back to Him, like a prodigal son returning home." The priest's voice was stripped of all judgment, leaving only a raw, painful truth. "From your voice, I can tell you are a young man with life ahead of you. Do not defile your body, the temple of the Holy Spirit. This is not a prison rule, my son. It is for your good, and for nothing else."
The young man felt a subtle shift; his mind, once a tangled knot of guilt, began to loosen, even as his heart remained tense with the gravity of his confession.
"For your penance," Fr. Bernard continued, his voice regaining a sliver of its formal strength, "you will pray one decade of the Rosary, meditating on the Sorrowful Mysteries, and reflect on the First Station of the Cross. Do this for the indulgence and to aid the holy souls in Purgatory. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Father."
"Then say the Act of Contrition."
The young man responded with a practiced rhythm, the words now filled with a new, desperate sincerity: "O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because of Thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all-good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to sin no more and to avoid the near occasion of sin. Amen."
Fr. Bernard raised his hand in blessing, its shadow large and trembling against the fabric of the curtain. "God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son, has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace. And I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."
"Go in the peace of Christ."
"Thanks be to God," the young man whispered. He stood up, his legs unsteady beneath him, and stepped out of the confessional, the wooden door clicking shut behind him with a soft, final sound. He moved into the vast, shadowy nave of the church to begin his penance, the scent of old incense and melting wax a familiar, comforting embrace.
Inside the confessional, Fr. Bernard remained on his seat, his heart weighed down by a weary sigh that seemed to rise from the soles of his feet. He thought of the souls in Purgatory. They are the luckiest so far, he mused, the notion bleak and chilling. They are at the door. Most won't make it, because the road is so narrow, and the world makes it so easy to wander off.
The next person entered the stall. The priest took a slow, deep breath, collecting the scattered pieces of his strength. "For your penance," he began, his voice finding its steady cadence once more, "pray a decade of the Rosary, meditating on the Sorrowful Mysteries, and reflect on the Second Station of the Cross for your indulgence."
As the evening wore on, the line of penitents dwindled. The choir's voices faded away, leaving a profound, echoing silence in their wake. The soft, hurried footsteps of the altar servers finishing their final preparations for the next day's Sunday Mass echoed briefly and then ceased.
Finally, the last penitent walked out. The heavy confessional door swung shut with a resonant bang that shuddered through the quiet church, a sound that felt like an ending. Alone at last, Fr. Bernard kissed the stole around his neck, the sacred silk now feeling heavier than lead. He stood, his joints aching a dull protest, and switched off the light, plunging the small, soul-weary space into total darkness.
He stepped out into the main church and saw a familiar, broad shouldered figure in front of the sanctuary Fr. Michael, a priest from a neighboring parish. His sight then caught the fleeting figure of a boy in the distance, walking into the sacristy from the sanctuary with a purple stole in hand. Michael was studying a stained glass window, his hands clasped behind his back, but he turned as Bernard approached, his sharp eyes missing nothing.
"Bernard," Michael said, his voice a low, warm baritone that always seemed to fill a space. "Man of God," he added, joking with him, hoping to provoke laughter or even just a smile.
"You've borne the weight of the entire city tonight, my friend. Are you alright?"
The concern in his brother priest's voice was a small, warm ember in the vast, cool church. Bernard offered a thin, tired smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "The spirit is willing, Michael, but the flesh is weak. It's nothing a little rest won't mend. I will visit the hospital on Monday, just for some routine checks."
Michael placed a firm, reassuring hand on Bernard's shoulder, the grip solid and grounding. "See that you do. We need you strong. Get some real rest tonight."
"You as well, Michael. And thank you, for your help tonight."
"Always," Michael said with a nod. "Good night, Bernard."
"Good night."
With a final fraternal squeeze, Fr. Michael turned and walked towards the door, his footsteps echoing softly before being swallowed by the silence, as he drove away into the night.
Pushing open the great oak doors of the church, Fr. Bernard stepped out into the cool night air. The city sounds rushed in to meet him a distant siren, the hum of traffic, the world carrying on. And there, under the white, ghostly glow of a streetlamp, he saw Sarah. She was standing frozen, her face a mask of fear and worry. Her eyes, wide and imploring, met his, and in that silent, desperate exchange, he knew the peace of the confessional was behind him, and the messy, human struggles of the world were waiting. His duty was not yet done.
He hasn't thanked her yet.